Catfish Chronicles - Ch. 03 Caught

“Thailand,” I announce, “has ruined me. Totally ruined me. I can never have Thai food again, not unless I come back here!”

“That’s a long way for Take-Out,” he agrees.

Better-Kate’s adventures are half travelogue now. Maybe more than half. There are still exotic dance performances, or performances I’ve seen. I describe watching a live sex show with a statuesque woman and an extraordinarily athletic and well hung dwarf.

There are assignations with wealthy Filipino businessmen and Generals, invitations to high (but not highest) society events and private parties, private shows where sometimes I’m the performer, and sometimes the audience, but it’s always exciting and transgressive. Better-Kate is sexually unconquerable and utterly fearless, free with her body in a way that transcends morals.

But there’s more. I describe for him the sunrise over the Manilla skyline, the beaches of Luzon, extremes of wealth and poverty. There’s an encounter with a monkey-like tarsier. A game of strip poke with billionaires where I clean them out, and finally in frustration, they simply pay me to take off my clothes. Flying over the mountains in a tiny plane.

Eventually, Better-Kate moves on, briefly stopping in Singapore. Then to Thailand and descriptions of jungles and ancient Buddhist temples, the night life of Bangkok, rude American tourists, ladyboys, the beauty of the Thai people, the exquisite food.

I always wanted to travel. And as I researched, scouring the internet and travel books, looking at pictures and videos, and putting myself in the middle of it, embroidering detail after detail, imagining taste and texture, heat and the sweat of my skin under clothes, the sounds of insects or street life, the smells... In a way, I’m there with him. Telling him, sharing it with him makes it vivid for me. The lies make it real.

&&&

I went on a date. My life didn’t stop when Better-Kate came along. I still went out with friends, I went on dates.

He was all right. His name was Tom. He worked at a law firm doing tax cases. He was sincere and mildly funny. He clings to his sense of humor, because he did tax cases, and he thought it kept him from turning into a drone.

The date went well, we did all the usual things, dinner and drinks. The bar was too loud, so I invited him back to my place, where we made out on the couch and then took it into the bedroom.

The sex was perfectly acceptable.

In my mind, as we laid together, I reconfigured him into a taut bodied young German, not a trace of fat on his rigid, rippled frame. A casual tourist, a backpacker, in Bangkok that Better-Kate connects with, who after incandescent, wildly athletic sex, talks about mountain climbing and his ambition to make an assault on Mount Everest.

We saw each other a couple of times. But after that, the mild chemistry just sputtered out.

I didn’t miss him.

&&&

We discussed whether I should get nipple piercings, going back and forth over the subject.

In her lines of work, Better-Kate should get breast implants. And honestly, I’m mildly intrigued by them.

On one of my visits to a bar, a stripper allowed me to fondle hers. There was something intriguing about their soft rigidity, the yielding firmness. There was a sense of presence there, of confidence or assertiveness that surprised me. I understood a little better why some women got them and why they liked them.

I shared these thoughts with Mike. Better-Kate feels more thoughtful than I am. She was more observant, she paid closer attention to the world, and gave it more reflection.

In a weird way, I feel more shallow. But then again she’s off traveling the world, seeing new places and new faces. Real life is more humdrum, full of consistency and repetition.

Better-Kate has thought about breast implants, she shared with Mike. Maybe someday. But for now, she likes her body natural. Mike concurs, he liked her body too.

The nipple piercings we discussed at more length. I’m actually intrigued by the thought of getting them for real. The idea of going to work, of going through the monotony of life, with a secret under my clothes, that’s exciting to me. I think that they’d look good. Mike agrees.

I almost do it. But then I chicken out. Because I always chicken out.

Better-Kate tells Mike she changed her mind, for now.

&&&

Dubai, I talk about sandstorms. The awful unbearable heat. The incredible wealth and opulence, and the hidden but pervasive near slavery. reveal that the Burq Khalifa, the tallest building in the world, is not connected to water and sewer, and so every morning at five am, dozens of trucks line up to cart away sewage and deliver for showers and baths.

I tell him about straddling a perfumed Sheikh in his limousine on a crowded street, the windows blacked of course. Coarse hands on my body, a mixture of repugnance and excitement.

I’ve been in a limousine in real life, at least, for my high school graduation, a bunch of us in over-ruffled dresses, drinking non-alcoholic wine, giggling about the future.

I’d have rather had the Sheikh.

&&&

“This woman, she’s dressed like a nun, except that it’s a fetish nun. Her habit and wimple is red latex, skin tight, strategically exposed in places. She’s got piercings and little bells hanging from chains on the piercings. And there’s a Dominatrix with what looks like a shock wand, and she’s touching the nun with it to make the bells ring.”

“That’s pretty freaky,” Mike responds.

I’m describing a night at a fetish club in Berlin, high on MDMA, and the gorgeous kaleidoscope of bodies of every size and shape covered in latex, leather and costumes so extreme as to be ludicrous.

“Now the next one up on stage, the next few, men and women. They’re not dressed nearly as wildly as that. But they’re wearing these metal plates over strategic parts of their body, like their breasts or crotch. The Dominatrix, she takes this industrial grinder, and jams it into their crotches.”

“Holy shit,” Mike texts.

“The shower of sparks is amazing, it just lights up the whole stage. It reaches ten feet in the air. The sub is shaking and moaning loudly. You can hear him over the sound of the grinder. He’s pretending to have an orgasm. Or maybe he’s actually having one, I wouldn’t be surprised. After, the Dom walks around the stage waving this piece of industrial machinery over her head, and then the next one comes forward.”

I pause.

“Did you get the pictures I sent you.”

“Oh yes, amazing. Did you take them?”

“LOL. No, I would have been afraid to. There was a photographer there. He posted them online.”

“What were you wearing?”

“I was pretty conservative for that crowd. Topless. I wore a Catwoman mask, my black PVC thigh highs, and a strap-on with a twelve inch black dildo.”

“I think I can see you in some of the pictures, in the background.”

Or a woman that can pass for me. I’ve sent him pictures now and then, some quite explicit ones, depending on my levels of excitement or adventurousness. I’ve actually bought lingerie just for some pictures, or ventured to some locations. My boldest picture was in a run down toilet stall, giving a fake blow job to a very realist dildo, pretending it was an imaginary stranger.

Other pictures from exotic locations, I stole from the internet and painstakingly learned to Photoshop myself into them.

The conversation turns to strap-ons, and I describe the night, embroidering details as always, and ramming transvestites in the basement of the club.

“I thought I was freaky! That was a whole other level.”

And then later.

“I should be back in a couple of weeks. Do you want to get together?”

Oh so casually. But I’ve shocked myself. Where had that come from? My heart starts to race, my stomach flips with excitement, with terror and eagerness, even though I know what the answer will be.

“Sure.”

The answer was just as casual, but I’m imagining his shock, the sudden instant surge of his erection. The wild, eager, heart stopping enthusiasm and elation on his side. Or am I just imagining it.

“Cool,” I type. “I’ll let you know.”

What did I just do?

&&&

Given our strange relationship, choosing what to wear was a challenge.

All afternoon I debated. Wear something normal? After all the stories I’d told him? Fetish clubs in Germany, orgies in Amsterdam, dancing my way through Southeast Asia? I’d sent him pictures of my vagina.

Technically, they could have been anyone’s vagina, and I almost used some I’d found on the internet, but in the end, I’d opted for authenticity. After all, it wasn’t as if my face was in my more explicit pictures.

The only option was to go big, and by that, I meant slutty sex goddess. At first, I opted to wear the same outfit, or lack of outfit, as I’d worn on our first encounter. Sexy, cheap, nostalgic.

Yeah, wearing it around the apartment or on the way to my car in the parkade was one thing. Out in public where people would see? Nope.

So I opted for a trench coat over it - that was what I’d worn on the way to meet Jay. A different trench coat. But I couldn’t help the feeling of deja vu.

I tried on the thigh high fetish boots and walked around experimentally. No way. They’d never been really comfortable, and each time I’d worn them, I’d gotten less willing. Instead, I opted for some very nice red level calf length boots with slightly less torturous heels.

Naked, I checked them out in the mirror. Not bad. I tried with the miniskirt, turning this way and that, and sucking in my belly. Without the vinyl boots going all the way up my thighs, there was something missing - that was such an expanse of bare flesh from calf to miniskirt. I added fishnet patterned stay ups. It worked with the miniskirt.

I tried on the bustier? I needed a little more. I had a fishnet top that would go well with the stay up stockings. I tried that. Nice, but it clashed with the bustier, I was ‘overdressed slutty.’ Tried it without the bustier, too much nipple action. Pasties? That was stupid. I tried a bunch of different tops, tank tops, tube tops, sequined tops, plunging necklines, really tight showing the outline of breasts and nipples, or loose and deep so you could look down my cleavage and maybe when I moved, catch a glimpse of nipple.

In the end, I chickened out and went with a plunging red tank top, with a loose fishnet over it. It was still embarrassing to be seen in public with it, but I’d wear the trench coat.

I stared at the full length mirror, boots and stay-ups, miniskirt, tank top, lots of skin. I sighed, somehow, I felt a little awkward, like a little girl dressing in grown-up clothes.

Better-Kate would have worn this so much better. Better-Kate would have just worn whatever she wanted without a thought, no second guessing, and she would have been stunning.

&&&

That afternoon he was already waiting for me when my cab arrived at Barleys, a bar on the edge of the seedy side of town. The autumn air was cool, but the patio section was still open, and he was sitting by the railing under an umbrella.

I smiled and waved back as I got out of the cab. But my stomach was doing flip flops, my heart was racing.

I’d planned an exit from the cab, the folds of the trench coat parting as I swung my leg out, the red boot and length of stocking all the way up to my thigh momentarily on display. But I forgot all that. Instead it felt like I stumbled out, gracelessly, like a clod.

It was night and day between how I actually moved, and the flamboyant grace and poise that Better-Kate radiated effortlessly.

Still, I managed to get up the stairs and into a chair opposite him, without embarrassing myself. I was excited but terrified, not of him, but of making a mess of it. I was aroused, but intimidated. I wanted to just run away. This whole thing was such a mistake, I needed to go back to text messages and emails and occasional phone calls, exotic stories and carefully staged pictures from the safety of my apartment. Right now, he was altogether too real, too three dimensional.

He was just sitting opposite me, blushing slightly.

I should say something. I smiled and unconsciously licked my lips, tasting the gloss.

“So here we are?” I offered.

Mentally, I kicked myself for being so lame.

“Here we are,” he agreed.

Oh god, after all those online exchanges, we had nothing to talk about in real life!

“Nice outfit.”

“Thanks,” I said, clutching the trench coat, it was practically buttoned up to my neck. I crossed my legs in a non-Femme Fatale way, which drew his attention to my legs and made me blush. Why? I’d wanted him to see my legs as I was riding over in the cab. I should unbutton the coat.. But I couldn’t, I was suddenly too chickenshit. Or I’d been chickenshit all along.

The waitress came over, and I chatted with a her about selections until I ordered a Shiraze red wine. He was having a beer.

“It’s on me,” he said quickly, before she left. Nervous, he was nervous. His movements a little too quick. He kept glancing at my legs, and when he looked at me, I could tell he was mentally trying to see through the trench coat. Definitely nervous.

Well, that made two of us.

Oddly, talking to the waitress, the three of us interacting, had helped me regain some self possession. I undid a button from the trench coat, just one, but it was a start. I re-crossed my legs, again in a non-femme fatale way, but he watched anyway.

We chatted, at first about the weather, and then about the city. I pretended not to have been here for a while. I asked him about his job and his interests. The waitress brought our drinks, and with the wine, I was almost starting to relax.

Then he asked about Thailand. My heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, I was frozen, not sure what to say. Then, suddenly, I had the weirdest deja vu, it was like I was twelve and in elementary school, the teacher calling on me out of the blue, and this weird elation when I realized that I absolutely had the right answer, the bestest answer!

I can do this, I thought, as I smiled and lied, visualizing photographs in my mind of an old abandoned temple up the river and embroidering details of the journey, the call of birds, the insects the suffocating heat and humidity and the decaying grandeur of the ancient stones.

In the back of my mind I made up an impromptu tryst with an androgynous but swarthy Thai tour guide, a quick unforgettable encounter up against a stone wall, surrounded by vines and parrot calls. Force of habit. I didn’t tell him that part of it though.

Suddenly, I was Better-Kate, or at least I’d slipped into playing her, had grabbed onto her confidence and easy sexuality. I undid more buttons, leaned forward, shifted casually in my chair. His eyes glittered as I exposed more. Another glass of wine and he watched like a hawk as I touched lips to glass and sipped.

There were more questions, more stories, we laughed and chatted. He told his own stories, none so adventurous as mine, but these were heartfelt and genuine. His were true, and they were sweet.

I leaned back and as he tried not to look at my cleavage, I let the tip of my boot accidentally brush against his calf.

“You used to work around here?” he asked. The trench coat was completely unbuttoned and open, still hanging from my shoulders because I was chicken, but still exhibitionistic. The waitress when she came back with the third glass had looked me up and down.

Every time I shifted in my seat, Mike glanced at my legs, trying to see up my skirt. I liked that. I let the miniskirt ride up so that he could see the smooth thighs above the stocking, and then pulled it down.

I turned, looking over my shoulder, feeling the sway of my breast. It’s amazing how vividly aware you are of your own body when you know someone else is watching, drinking it in. Especially when you know how exciting it is for them, and you want it to be.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I did.”

I remembered my lunch with the hooker and her pimp, sorry, ‘boyfriend.' His hand on my knee, the invitation I'd bailed on. Chickenshit-Kate.

“We used to all eat together at Sammy’s Burgers,” I said. “Slow nights, or just taking a break with the girls. We’d all laugh together.”

I turned back.

“Is Sammy’s still there?”

“Yes.”

“Good burgers,” I told him. “All the girls thought so. Home made, you know. Nothing like it.”

“We can check it out, if you’re hungry,” he offered.

I shrugged.

“Maybe later.”

“Where did you used to work out of?”

Trick question? Was he suspicious? No, just asking. Besides, I knew this one.

“Different hotels,” I replied. “The Stock, the Regency. My favourite was the Fairmont, that used to be high class, and you know, even run down, it had a mystique.”

“The Georgia?”

I that was the closest one to us, just down the street. The cab had gone right past it.

“That one too.”

I smiled.

“How much did you charge?”

“That would be telling,” I teased, smiling at him over my wine glass. I slouched back a little, and his eyes darted to my breasts.

I should have gone with a push up bra, or maybe the bustier. Or the tight number with the transparent panel. Real-Kate couldn’t help second guessing everything to death!

I pushed her down, and brought up Better-Kate to give him a smokey look, “Asking for any particular reason?”

“Just curious,” he blushed deeply.

“What do you think? What’s the going rate these days?” I asked.

“I don’t know. A hundred?” Which was actually the going rate. I wanted to tease and ask how he knew. Maybe I could get another deep blush. But I decided not to.

“A hundred?” I let my half empty wine glass twirl slightly on my fingertips. “Surely not.”

“A hundred and twenty?”

I rolled my eyes, and took another sip to cover my excitement. I couldn’t believe it. It was happening. I’d been trying to think how to broach the subject, trying to figure out how to move us from here to the next step. And here it was, I couldn’t believe how simple it was. Every date should be like this - just make an offer.

“A hundred and fifty?”

I finished my glass and set it down on the table, crossing and uncrossing my legs in the Femme Fatale way. I smiled at him and said one word.

“Sold.”

&&&

“Cool!”

He sounded so excited and relived at once, it was kind of sweet. We’d already had sex, and since then, I’d filled him up with a hundred stories of raunchy adventures. I couldn’t imagine why he might have doubted we were going to fuck.

Hell, I wanted to fuck. Sure, I’d struggled with cold feet. But seriously, it had been in my mind since I’d agreed to meet again. And at some point, after the first glass of Shiraze, I’d firmed up the decision to climb up and down him like he was made of ladders. The only challenge was how to get there.

“Money up front,” I said. My nervousness had evaporated, I was playing a role, and I wanted to play it to the hilt.

“Here?”

“Sure,” I said confidently. “Put it on the table.”

He opened his wallet and laid out the bills. I made a show of counting it and slipped it into the trench coat pocket. There were a few other people at tables now. Had they noticed? Were they wondering? Making assumptions?

Mike paid our bill, the Waitress giving me side eyes at the way I was dressed. I smiled back, wishing I could have counted the cash in front of her. We stood together. I left the trench coat unbuttoned, aware of male glances sliding off me. My nipples were hard, my breasts swayed with each move. The miniskirt had ridden up just enough that the tops of stockings and a little bit more showed.

“So,” I asked, as we walked by patrons, “where are we going to go? Your place.”

“Georgia. I rented a room. It was the closest. A short walk.”

I laughed. Perfect.

“Oh my, you were pretty sure of yourself, weren’t you?”

Even without looking, I could tell he was blushing, and I had this weird flood of affection for him.

“I was hoping.”

“Well I hope you didn’t go for their hourly rate,” I said.

“No, I paid for a whole night there,” he said, almost apologetically. “I figured... you know.”

I patted his hand.

“Good boy.”

&&&

I’d never been inside the Georgia, or any of the downtown hotels that catered to indigents and prostitutes. I’d known about the Fairmont and its faded grandeur, because of a newspaper article in the Arts & Culture section. But if the Georgia had ever been classy, there was no sign of it.

The lobby was stripped of all furniture but an old wooden bench and a broken pay phone. You could tell it had once been expansive and maybe even classy, but a crude retrofitted wall had been constructed, with cheap doorways, all the walls covered with too many coats of cheap paint. One of the doors said “Restaurant.” The whole place had that musty dusty heaviness that you get sometime with decaying buildings, a place that’s had it’s time long ago, and is just patiently marking time until the wrecking ball comes.

The front desk was enclosed in a glass partition, or perhaps thick plexiglass judging by the scratches. Behind it there was a fat old man in a sweat stained shirt and muttonchop sideburns, watching a small television. He looked up at us.

I smiled and nodded at the old man as if I came here regularly. He looked me up and down with a kind of practiced appreciation, and nodded back. Mike waved his key, and the man pressed a hidden button. The metal door buzzed and we went through.

“Just so you know,” I said in the elevator, “I wanted to wear the exact outfit I was wearing when we met. But a heel broke.”

“You look good.”

“Thanks. I am wearing the same underwear.”

“I don’t remember you wearing underwear.”

I smiled.

“Exactly.”

I wasn’t looking directly at him, but I was sure he blushed. My smile stretched into a grin, and I took his hand in mine.

Upstairs it was as seedy as you would expect, the carpet worn through, the walls and fixtures covered with multiple coats of paint. Our room was a bed, a bathroom, a single dresser-table and a chair. The musty odor was even stronger. How many people had fucked on that bed?

I heard a noise.

“Listen,” I held a hand up, motioning silence, listening hard at the wall next to the door.

As we listened, we could just barely here the rhythmic sound of springs, a series of feminine grunts, and then very clearly, the a woman’s voice. “Oh god, oh yes, fuck me, now, now, now!”

I grinned.

“Someone’s having fun,” I whispered, as if they could hear us and I didn’t want to interrupt them. I was glad of the distraction, I had this hesitancy, it seemed that each step left me uncertain. Here we were in the room, now what? Sure, sex, but how do you get there?

I let the trench coat slide off my shoulders as he stepped towards me. He wrapped one hand around my waist, as I caught the other one and guided it to my breast feeling his fingers splay to cup it. In my heels we were the same height, I pressed my lips to his.

The kiss felt... right. His lips were softer than I expected, almost tentative. We hadn’t kissed at all that first time. His hand slid down to my bare skin and then slid back up under my tank top, pushing it upwards. The intimacy of the touch gave me this little wet shiver and I felt my heart give a little bump. We kissed harder, more passionately. His lips parted, and my tongue flickered in, lightly touching the tip of his.

His head dipped, then he was nibbling at my earlobe. I turned my head slightly, to give him better access, enjoying the way his tongue darted just below. I arched my neck, smiling with pleasure, feeling his body pressing against me as his kisses followed one after the other, down my throat, along my shoulder, making me shiver with pleasure. I loved the feel of his hands on my bare skin, the way he cupped my breast.

He went lower, bending to wear my tube top had been pushed up, sliding over it to take my nipple into his mouth. I moaned slightly, and slid my fingers through his hair at the back of his head, pushing him harder onto my rigid nipple.

“Oh yes,” I whispered, “suck harder.”

I moaned again as his cheeks caved and I could feel the wet suction, making my nipple throb and tingle.

I was going to get my nipples pierced, I decided. Fuck Real-Kate and her chickenshit ways. I was going to get it done, even if Better-Kate had to drag Real-Kate kicking and screaming.

Disappointingly, he left my nipple. For a second, he lightly kissed the other, and went lower. Oh my, I thought, where is this going?

Then he was kneeling in front of my, how hands, palms flat moving slowly from thighs, to belly to breast, a sensual exploration that had me purring like a kitten. I pulled my miniskirt up to my waist and leaned back against the dresser, parting my legs and bending my knees to give him better access. I was wet with anticipation and excitement, panting slightly, almost on the edge of trembling. I knew what he wanted, and I wanted him to have it. I ran my fingers through this hair, but he needed no guidance.

“Oh my!” I whispered suddenly, my eyes opening

Oh what was that? His tongue unerringly found my clit, a single wet press, a hint of motion, and lifted, leaving nothing but lingering shock and his warm breath. I caught my breath. It was delicious.

He reached around behind my thighs, his arms snaking forward, fingers reaching in from each side to part my lips, spreading them from my clit. I shivered at the intimate exposure. His tongue darted in again, touching, teasing, never lingering.

“Oh my!” I said more forcefully. “Oh my! You are good!”

My clit felt like it was radiating sheer pleasure, every touch and lash of his tongue sent a shiver through me. I’d had men go down on me, but... oh wow... never like this. Mostly it had just been lapping away, a dog-like persistence until I was massaged into orgasm.

But this, this was heaven. This was ballet, my hips twitched to the touches of his tongue, it was nowhere and everywhere, triggering waves of sensation, never quite the same, but each delightful.

“Fuck!” I said. “Where did you learn this?”

He lifted his head, to speak, and almost desperately, I shoved his face back between his legs, grinding my mound against his face.

“Never mind,” I said quickly. “Tell me later. Right now, just keep on doing this. Oh wow!”

I spread my legs a little wider, leaning back and reaching down to press fingers and pull against my pubic mound, exposing my clit to him that much more. His tongue slithered down between my lips, and then back again, making the insides of my thighs tremble.

I knew where he’d learned it! Of course, of course, I thought, floating on his flickering tongue. I’d taught him. I'd told him exactly how to do it.

I’d laid it out, explaining, describing, fantasizing an oral sex inspired by my own masturbation laced with pornography, erotica and my own imagination fabricating endless detail.

The bastard had been taking notes all along. The fucker. The delicious, delirious fucker.

“Oh my god,” I cried out, and jammed his face against my mound, grinding for a moment, before releasing him to let his lips and tongue dance and tease. I could feel his hot moist breath down my thighs, my lips open, my vagina dilating. I wished he’d stick a finger, two fingers up inside me, that would be delirious.

He did something with his tongue, I couldn’t visualize just what, but it was wet and muscular and slithered like an eel in exactly the right way.

“Yes, yes, yes!” I cried. “Exactly that, do that, do that.”

Suddenly, as the sensation repeated again and again I could feel the pleasure, the sensation coalescing into a blinding white ball between my legs, lighting crawling up my spine. I grabbed his head with both hands, my thighs both rigid and trembling like jelly, spasming open and then clamping around him, opening again. I threw my head back, my body going stiff, and just cried out with ecstasy, and just came, and came.

It faded, leaving me breathless, and panting, little spots across my vision. Suddenly, I felt drenched with sweat, and weak as a kitten, my muscles like water.

Mike rose from between my legs, arms around me, as I sat with my ass on the dresser, it was all that was holding me up. He said something, I didn’t register it.

“Okay,” I breathed. “Okay, you just earned a refund. Oh, I’m taking that home with me.”

“It was good?” he asked.

I grinned, cute little attention whore that he was. He played my pussy like a harp, and now he was begging for affirmation? I kissed him.

“I can live with it.”

I plucked at his shirt.

“You’re really overdressed,” I whispered, undoing a button. I reached down with one hand, feeling him rock hard in his pants, fingers tracing the outlines of a cock I remembered so well.

“You’re hardly dressed at all.”

That made me giggle. I pulled off my fishnet and tank top, it was already pushed up over my breasts to my armpits. I discarded it on the floor. He stared at my breasts, not just stared, worshiped, transfixed. They hypnotized him, it was if they were miraculous. I loved it. I arched my back, thrusting them forward, wanting him to stare and stare, drinking up his arousal and attention.

“Aren’t they just great!” I exulted.

I reached out to his shirt, half unbuttoned and pressed my palms against his bare flesh, sliding them across, feeling his pectorals and nipples. He was hastily undoing the rest of the buttons and pulling the shirt tails out. My hands drifted lower, pulling at his belt.

I slipped off the dresser, my legs still wobbly. Oh man that had been good, I was still a little shocked by how good he’d been.

I shoved my hand into his loosened pants feeling my way across his boxers. Frustrated, I pulled back and reached again, this time fingertips gliding down bare skin thick with wiry hair. My hand curled around his bare erection and I felt it throbbing the tip already wet and slick, the feel of it, the texture, the hardness, my own boldness thrilled me.

“Oh hello there!” I whispered, delighted. “I remember this.”

Mike pulled my miniskirt down my hips. I let it fall. We stumbled towards the bed as he shrugged out of his shirt and kicked off his shoes. His pants fell clunking around his ankles, weighted down by wallet and phone and belt, while his boxers were twisted around his thighs. I kept my fingers wrapped around his cock, I didn’t want to let it go.

I was almost crazed with sexual excitement, I couldn’t think of anything else. I wanted him so badly. I wanted to feel him in me, I wanted him looking at me, touching me. I felt radiant, as if I was glowing, incandescent with erotic fire.

As we approached the bed, he turned me around nibbling at the back of my neck, his hands reaching around cupping my breasts, making me purr like a cat. I loved the way he touched me, I wanted him to keep touching me, exploring me forever. I took one of his hands, and slid it down my body, between my legs.

“Feel this,” I husked, pressing his hand against my mound, fingers parting my lips. “I’m so wet, so fucking wet!”

Gently, he pushed me on my back. I took the cue, bending forward, climbing onto the bed, my knees at the lip, going down to my elbows as he gripped my hips. I could feel him moving behind me, almost delaying, hands lifting. I pushed my ass back towards him.

“Just a minute,” he gasped. I could feel him kicking off his boxers and pants, his hand returning to my pass, pressing down to steady himself. My thighs backed against his, I could feel his erection beneath us. Steadying on one elbow, I reached for it, holding it for a second.

“Give it to me,” I moaned.

“Spread wider,” he husked, pushing down. My knees went wider on the bed, lowering.

Then suddenly, I felt him at my lips, a moment of probing, finding me, sliding against my clit, and then up to my entry.

Then a wonderful deep thrust! I gasped and arched my back to accept it deeper.

“Oh yes!” I cried out.

His hands had locked on my hips, holding me in place, as he started to pound with powerful thrusts. Slightly off balance on only one elbow, my face hit the bed for an instant until I could get both elbows, my thighs spreading wider, feeling him deeper. I arched my back, mewing with pleasure. I made guttural noises of sheer pleasure, loving the feel of his hands, the tension that radiated off him, the cock hard and hot and wildly rigid pistoning rapidly in me. I felt like a rag doll on his cock, my body flung this way and that with each thrust, sensitive to every movement, the swing of my breasts, the flex of thighs and elbow and back, the toss of my hair. With him behind me, invisible, it felt almost like I was in my own world, alone and experiencing a sexual earthquake.

Wild intense thrusting gave way to more measured strokes, steadily increasing in speed and intensity, the strokes shortening with intensity. His hands on my hips were like iron, fingers digging into my flesh. He loosed me, reaching out to grab my shoulder and pull me harder onto his thrusting erection. His free hand sliding down my sweat drenched back.

I flashed on our previous fuck, the way he’d gripped my hips and thrust into me from behind, the sensations and memory so vivid that the two experiences seemed to merge together, bringing a renewed visceral intensity. Had the last few months happened? Mike’s cock rigid and pumping seemed so intense, so real, so permanent and immediate. All I knew was that I wanted it, I wanted it forever, even inside me now it wasn’t enough.

“More,” I screamed. “More cock! Harder! Fuck me harder!”

This seemed to set him off, his grip on my shoulder past my neck tightening. His other hand dug into my ass, it was as if he was physically pulling me back onto his cock with each forward thrust. My ass smacked against his hips with a series of rapid wet slapping sounds, almost stinging as if he was spanking me. Animalistic grunts poured out from behind me, becoming deeper and coarser.

It was too intense, my second orgasm felt like it poured over me, like a flood, an intense wave and release. I cried out, my body going stiff. My face hit the bed, back arching and I slid forward stiffening, slipping from his grip. There was an almost painful combination of regret and relief as I felt his cock slipping out of me, it was too much, too intense, and yet not enough, I didn’t want to let it go.

I felt him climbing onto the bed on top of me, his weight settling over me like a flesh blanket, hairy and sweaty and welcome. I reveled in it, wanting to pull him further over me. I could feel his erection against my ass cheek, ready and waiting.

Mike let me catch my breath. I twisted under him, and he rolled off, the two of us, side by side in bed.

I loved looking at him, his plain unassuming face, bursting with humanity. I reached out to stroke his arm, drawing fingertips from there to hairy chest. Hair on his arms, his chest, wiry and undisciplined. He’d be hopeless as a man-scaping case, I thought. But then, that was him all over, a little thick, a little heavy, muscles like slabs covered with a layer of fat. His body was a million miles away from the gym sculpted men I’d dated, their body hair carefully pruned, sprayed, body-washed and exfoliated.

There was something so viscerally authentic to him that overcame his apparent ordinariness. I couldn’t stop looking at him. I wanted to touch him, and keep touching him all over, to feel him on my fingertips and palms. I wanted to turn him over to look at his ass, to explore every inch of him. I wanted to lick him like an ice cream cone, every bit of him.

“Pretty intense, uh?” he was breathless. His eyes were luminous, staring at me. I grabbed his hand, and drew it to my breast.

“Oh yeah, just feel that,” I replied. “My heart is just pounding.”

His eyes shifted down from my gaze to my breasts. I lifted one knee, exposing myself, letting him look, wanting him to look, to see me. I wanted to feel his gaze, the lust and fascination in it.

My hand slid down towards his erection. I felt slick rubber. Glancing down, I saw a condom. Right, I thought. I’d felt it back when I’d reached under on the bed, but it had been so quick, and I’d been so impassioned, I hadn’t really registered it.

I toyed with his erection, letting my fingers crawl down its length, until my palm was splayed, cradling full hair testicles.

“I didn’t even notice you put it on,” I said.

“Yeah,” he agreed.

“You’re clean right?” I asked, plucking at the base of the rubber, rolling it back a little. “I want to feel you. The real you. I want to feel this naked.”

“You sure?”

I’d gone on birth control for a month just for this meeting, just in case.

“Oh yes,” I whispered. I pushed him onto his back and rose up on one elbow, pulling on the condom, stretching the rubber out as it clung to his erection. It came off with a tiny wet noise, and then his raw cock was in my hand, slimy with condom sweat, but full and glorious, and mine. I wrapped my fingers around his cock, feeling it throb, feeling possessive.

I’d felt this way before, I remembered, our first time. A moment, a feeling where I hadn’t just held it, but I wanted it, I wanted to possess it, own it. A feeling like I’d taken it for my own, it belonged to me now. Mine, all mine!

It was such a strange sensation. I couldn’t ever remember feeling this possessive about any of my other lovers’ cocks. They’d always firmly belonged on their men, I’d had no urge to claim, no sense of wanting to own.

I stared at it, my hand sliding up and down, fascinated in this way, acutely conscious of how unique this fascination was, and wondering why it was so. It didn’t matter, I just wanted it.

I dipped my head over it, taking his glans in my mouth. I tasted cock sweat and smeared pre-cum and the residue of sour latex, and licked the prepuce, triggering a shudder through his body. I loved the response, if not the taste.

“Ready to go,” I asked.

I laid back, pulling his cock towards me, his body floating after. I got under him, spreading my legs, pulling my knees back up, holding him in both hands as he floated above me. I loved looking up at him, loved him hovering above me. I looked into his face as he stared down at me, and let my gaze drift down the length of him, drinking him in.

“Wait,” I whispered. “My boots.”

They’d been sexy. But my feet were starting to sweat, which was less than sexy. And I was afraid of the heels tearing the sheets.

“Take them off for me,” I husked, holding my legs straight up in the hair.

“Sure,” he leaned back on his haunches, his erection standing up proudly. Tentatively, he ran his hands down my left boot, found the zipper at the top of the calf and pulled it back to my ankle, pulling the boot off. He kissed my calf, and then repeated on the other one. The boots clumped on the side of the bed.

“The stockings?” he asked.

“Sure,” I replied.

“I kind of like them actually,” he said.

“Then we’ll leave them on.”

He leaned forward, sweeping over me. I felt the bed shift with his weight, the depressions as his palms pressed down on either side of me. The way he loomed over me, his erection eager and dangling below us, excited me.

I pulled my legs higher, knees bent, spread wide for him. I could feel my lips wide, practically gaping for him. This time, I wanted to see him, I wanted to watch his cock slide into me, as if I was watching a porn film, I wanted to see as well as feel him entering. I guided him down, rubbing the head of his cock deliciously against my clit, feeling the shape of him stroking up along my pubic mound, and then down, finding the wetness, the dripping folds, my entrance.

“Slow this time,” I whispered. “I want to feel it this time, I want to savour it.”

“I’ll try,” he whispered above me, looking down as well.

“This is the first time for us,” I whispered. “Skin to skin, bare. I want to memorize this, this intimacy.”

The head of his cock pressed between my lips, opening me. I arched my back as it paused, sliding just a little further onto it.

“Yes,” he whispered. “You feel so good. So good.”

I relaxed, the arch disappearing, my knees going a little higher. He slid slowly into me with exquisite sweetness as I reveled in his progress inch by inch, until his hairy crotch was pressed flat against me, grinding against my mound, flattening my clit hood, rubbing against my clit with intimate tension. It felt so vivid, I almost felt as if I could count each curling pubic hair.

He began to pull back with exquisite slowness, I hooked my thighs around him, heels almost touching as they pressed into his ass.

“Don’t go too far,” I giggled. “I wouldn’t want you to get lost.”

“Oh don’t worry,” he assured me, “I’m coming right back.”

His head dipped to kiss me. As we broke the kiss, his head and shoulders lifted, I felt his hips move as he kept his promise to return, sliding deep within me. I pressed my heels into his ass, to encourage him deeper, and reached up with my arms to draw him down, until our sweat covered bodies were sliding together.

We fucked like that, with me pinned like a butterfly under him, beautiful wings spread gloriously wide, penetrated deep. Long slow thrusts succeeded each other, punctuated by kisses, my hands up and down his body, feeling him, exploring him. My hips shifted, knees and legs bending and spreading, changing angles with each stroke.

We climbed into frantic hard pounding as one or the other of us neared orgasm, and then changed pace, pushing back the climax in favour of sensual exploration. I’d come twice, but I wanted more now, I wanted the intimacy of his body, the feel of his cock, I wanted to prolong it, spread it out, immerse myself in it. To treat it like wine and sip it slowly, savouring each taste, each mouthful, the intimacy of each thrust inside me, the feeling of him so deep.

The feeling felt mutual, it felt like he was drinking me in as much as I drank him, and that excited me. I reached up, ran my hands all over his body, drew him close and kissed him. I wanted to be drunk by him. I wanted him drunk on me, intoxicated. I wanted him to have me, to drown in me with an intensity that surprised me. I felt it, and felt it feeding my own fascination.

As our bodies moved against each other, our eyes met, and I remembered the first encounter, the way I’d wanted him to come into me from behind so that I didn’t have to look at him. That thought felt so alien, the first fuck almost unreal, a kind of crude sketch of genuine intensity.

But if that was hollow and superficial, it felt as if every other fuck in my life was nothing, the other men, the blow jobs, the cocks between my legs, the hollow paceless orgasms that seemed no more consequential than a breeze blowing through an empty room.

It felt like I was finally having sex, and it was glorious!

And it wasn’t enough. I wanted more of him, I wanted him everywhere. He needed two cocks, or three, he needed six hands, all of them touching me.

I pulled him down and thrust my tongue in his mouth, wrapping my arms and legs around him as tightly as I could. In this position, his cock wasn’t deep enough, even grinding together.

“Let’s change,” I whispered. “I want to go on top.”

“Okay.”

We rolled, and then I was straddling him, looking down. One of my stockings was gone and the other was down to my knee, so much for stay ups. I drew my knees together, lifting my hips above him. He held my thighs as I hovered over his erection, guiding it into place and relaxing. Moaning, I sank down on him, a sensation so different from being entered. I let my weight settle, sinking deep, pushing him up inside.

I leaned forward a bit, intimately aware of how the motion made my breasts sway, and vividly aware and enjoying the way his eyes tracked that motion.

I looked down at him, and drew his hands up until they were cupping my breasts, remembering how he’d clutched them our first time, his fingers like vises, digging in, leaving bruises.

I stared at his eyes, his pupils dilated, the sheen of sweat on his forehead. I felt the motion of his cock stiff and curving inside me as I rocked on it, the feel of the worn hotel sheets against my knees and toes. Putting my palm flat against his chest, I wallowed in the texture of his skin, the curling hairs mashed flat, the sweat, the firmness of muscle beneath the skin, the bone beneath that, the faintest throb of a heartbeat. Our breaths came in tandem, rasping and measured. Sweat trickled down my spine, dried on my forearms. I could smell him, and us, the rich scent of our bodies and breath, of our sweat and exertions and arousal.

It was all so intensely vivid in a way I’d never experience. I could practically count his pores, and they delighted me, every bit of him delighted me.

Why?

I had spent so many weeks and months, telling stories, researching and seeking out details to make it sound real, embroidering, searching imagining and manufacturing cascade of images, scents, sounds, touches, describing them, making them vivid to make them real. And now, here, beyond fantasy, actually doing it, it carried over into a sort of sensual awareness, a hyper awareness, a vividness that translated into hungry intensity.

Leaning over, I pushed my breasts against his hand as I ground my hip in a circle, feeling him move inside me. I splayed another palm on his chest, exploring him.

“The moment I saw you,” I whispered. “Out there in the hallway of that hotel, I wanted you. I forgot everything else. I just wanted you. From the very first moment, I knew I had to fuck you.”

Mike’s eyes widened, he almost seemed to glow. His hips seemed to lift and I could feel his curving erection stiffen inside me.

“Really,” he gasped.

“Oh yes,” I lied, not really knowing why I was lying, but needing him to hear it, to feel it. I needed him to believe I'd wanted him so badly then, because I wanted him so badly now. I wanted him badly forever, I wanted to spend the rest of my life in this moment with him.

I leaned forward, planting elbows on his chest, bending to kiss him deeply, even as my hips lifted until barely more than the head of his cock remained between my lips.

Then I slammed down wildly and rode him, picking up the pace steadily. My fingernails raked down his chest again and again, leaving red scratches that excited him even more. I remembered my bruises from the last time, the bruises I would have from his grip, and now I was leaving my own marks on him, my own legacy on his body. It excited me wildly.

It was another claim, another possession, and the more of him I had, the more I wanted. I wanted to swallow him down every inch, and I drove my hips down harder and harder again and again. Lifting high until he was barely in and then crashing down all the way with wild abandon.

His hands gripped my breasts so tight the fingers sank in and I loved it. He’d switch his hands to my hips, and I’d put them back. I touched him, explored him, running hands along his arms. Once, he fell out, because of my hunger to kiss him deeply. He held his cock steady, so I could push myself onto it. The hunger for each other kept on building.

Then his hips lifted, for an instant, my knees were off the bed, I swayed. His hands shifted to a death grip on my thighs, holding me in place, pulling me further down onto him. I swore I could feel his cock pulsing inside me, swelling. His body was rigid, sweat breaking out, flushed and radiating heat, his face a mask of strain. Again, his hips lifted me up, but this time I was ready, rising up with him even higher, feeling him slide from me, and than grinding down as hard as I could.

Mike was approaching orgasm. I could see it in his face like an oncoming train, huge and relentless and unstoppable. It excited me, I wanted him to come more than anything. I needed him to explode, to see his face, to watch him go white light and his mind explode to shards of pleasure.

“Come on, baby,” I grunted. But he was beyond hearing me. Instead, I ground on top of him, lifting and sinking, faster and faster, leaning forward, his death grip on my hips holding me in place as he writhed and surged under me. I grabbed my own breasts, squeezing them, pulling so hard on my nipples it was almost painful.

Then I felt him surge up inside me, I swear I could feel him ejaculating up inside me, a sensation I’d never felt with any other man, a sensation I would never have believed. But I was feeling it. Under me, his body seemed to radiate with tension, going explosively rigid, I wave of body heat bursting from him.

I ground my clit hard against him, feeling him so deep, pushing my long delayed orgasm, until I could feel it rolling over me. Lightning crawled up my spine, and I pushed and arched convulsively on him, even as he spurted inside me, hitting my peak even as he passed his, fucking myself to bliss as his semen seeped down between us.

Then I collapsed on top of him, unable to do more than pant. At that angle, his cock was barely half in me. I felt a sense of deprivation as his erection weakened and it fell out, but I was too weak and exhausted to do anything about it.

For long moments, we didn’t do anything but pant breathlessly. My heart was racing, and I could feel his thudding away. He lifted arms to hold me, but we were both so sweat drenched that they just slid.

Finally, when I could breathe, I rolled off him, and we cuddled together. My hand slid down, wrapping around his cock, now deflated, slimy with our juices, and still I felt a surge of possessiveness.

“Wow,” he said finally.

“Yep,” I replied. “You definitely earned that refund. Hell, I should pay you, you're worth it.”

“That was great.”

I squeezed his cock. No life there, not yet. I still liked holding it. I was definitely possessive.

“Just so you know,” I teased. “This is mine now. I’m taking it with me. We’ll travel the world together. You can do what you want. We’ll send you postcards.”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “It’s kind of attached.”

“Really?” I said. “That’s such a shame. I guess I’ll have to come back and visit it. Lots.”

“What about me?”

I pretended to think about it.

“I guess you’re okay too.”

He laughed.

“I have to say,” he said, “the first time I met you, that was the wildest, craziest sex of my life.”

Ditto, I thought, and smiled.

“But this,” he finished. “This drives a truck through that. This was mind blowing. This was amazing. Thank you so much.”

I put on a pretend frown.

“What?” I asked. “You think we’re finished. You paid for the whole night, remember?”

“What about my refund?”

“Well, if I’m paying you,” I teased, “then I’m definitely going to get my moneys worth. We’re just getting started.”

I spread my legs and guided his hand to my soaking crotch.

“Down boy,” I joked. “You’ve got work to do. Round two, coming up. Get that tongue in gear.”

And damn, if he didn’t do it. I was thrilled. Men never went down after they came, but he didn’t even hesitate. Even wet as I was, even dripping semen, albeit his own semen, his head bobbed enthusiastically between my thighs.

Pounded as I was, I thought I might not feel anything, but his lips and tongue were fresh and inventive as before, laying in a soft bed was a lot more comfortable, and soon enough I was screaming and pulling out his hair.

Then I returned the favor without a ravenous possessive enthusiasm, and when he was fully at attention, round two. And later on that night, round three.

&&&

Much later, I cuddled up against him as he slept, and I watched the sky lighten with dawn. I was thinking about what to do next.

I wanted to tell him the truth. To say “My name is Kate, I work at an entry level position as a clerk at a bank, I live in an apartment and watch Netflix. The most exciting thing I do in real life is order a frappuchino at Starbucks. The version of me that you think you know, I made it all up, I made her up.”

Except I couldn’t imagine saying it. The Kate that existed in his mind, Better-Kate, was so much more exciting, so much more vivid, more full of life than my drab existence. How could he ever trade that in? What would he think of me, if he knew every single thing I'd ever told him was a lie?

But for better or worse, I should. I needed to come clean, start over.

I didn’t want to.

The thing was, I loved Better-Kate. I loved the idea of her, the adventurous free spirit. I loved researching for her, studying art history, talking to prostitutes and dancers and street performers, seeking out pictures and details of places I’d never been, and making them come alive. Fantasizing trysts and adventures.

This night, wasn’t me. This was Better-Kate.

This was me playing the role of Better-Kate, as I’d played her through emails and texts and whispered telephone conversations. I reveled in her, wallowed in her confidence and wanton sensuousness, this was just another performance, slipping her on like an identity, inhabiting her personality.

And it was the best night of my life, the boldest night, the bravest. It was the best sex I’d ever had, wild, traumatic, addictive life changing sex.

Give that up? Let that go?

I didn’t want to let her go.

And really, she was the only Kate he knew. Whatever we did, whatever we had, she was the center. If I gave her up, there wouldn’t be an us. Just two strangers in awkward wreckage of lies, there wasn’t any possibility of a future. We could only exist together through the lie of Better-Kate.

I remembered from my research the story of an Indonesian monkey trap. It was simple, leave a glass bottle out in the jungle with a piece of fruit inside. The monkey comes along, sees the fruit and easily reaches inside to get the fruit. But once the fruit is in his fist, it’s too big to get through the neck of the bottle. It could free itself easily, by releasing the fruit. It wants the fruit too badly to let go, and so it’s trapped unwilling to surrender its desire. Suddenly, I understood how the monkey felt.

I couldn’t stop being Better-Kate, I couldn’t let her go. Instead, I’d go back and live my boring life, and she’d travel the world having adventures, and every now and then, she’d come back here, drawn back to Mike, and they’d get together and have amazing sex. They’d fall in love.

They’d already fallen in love, I admitted. But Better-Kate could only ever be a passing visitor in his life. Mike and Better-Kate’s relationship would continue, deepening, becoming more intimate, a thing of longing and hunger and moments of exquisite satisfaction.

I thought of Jay and how I’d been catfished, how hurt and humiliated I’d been. How devastating it had been to find that the person I’d thought I’d known, that I’d lusted for was a lie.

I watched Mike sleeping beside me, and yes, I’d fallen in love. I wanted to cherish and protect him. I could never hurt him, the way Jay had hurt me. I couldn’t bear the thought of him humiliated and devastated by the discovery that the amazing woman he loved was just a lie told by a mousy bank clerk.

He could never be allowed to meet the real me.

I was the catfish now.

And the catfish was caught, hooked on her own lies.